A Letter Blowing in the Wind
by a red door painted black
Summary: Claire writes a letter to Chris.


This story is rated **K** for **thematic elements**.

_Oh, would you look at that: I finished a fanfic. Now _that's _something you don't see everyday. ;) _

_Anyway, this story (which I originally named "Thinking") is a prompt-inspired piece that I wrote for a writing community, writerverse, over on LiveJournal. (Shameless plug: it's a super-fun community with lots of challenges. You guys should check it out sometime.) The prompt was merely to write a piece of fanfiction. I liked what I came up with, and a few people on LJ and Tumblr seemed to like it too, so I decided to upload it here for your reading pleasure. Hope you enjoy. (You'll read and review regardless, won't you? Pretty-please with cherries on top?)_

_And now, without further ado, I present to you...MY FIC!_

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**A Letter Blowing in the Wind**

Hey, Chris,

I'm writing you because I was thinking. I was thinking about all those times you walked me to the park when we were kids. I was thinking about the day those two older boys, Todd Nelson and Max Lovett, were making fun of me—pushing me, pulling my ponytail, pouring sand down my shirt—and how you broke Todd's nose and gave Max a black eye. They didn't think you could fight because you were just a fifth grader and they were sixth graders, but boy, one swing from you sure changed their minds. They ran home crying, bleeding—"stupid little sissies," you called them. And you held my hand all the way home. You kept calling them that, and I started calling them that too, and when Mom and Dad heard me, they were even more angry than when they'd gotten off the phone with Todd and Max's parents. They yelled at you, said that wasn't how you handle those things in the real world and that you were setting a bad example for me. When they were done, I was still holding your hand.

I also was thinking about that bike you bought off that senior when you were fifteen. How you hid it under a black tarp behind the brush in the back field, how you'd take me out for a joy ride when Mom and Dad were at work or in town shopping. How you kept teaching me how to ride it even after I ran us into that ditch by the highway. How angry they were at you and how much they yelled at you when they found it while they were out walking one morning, said you'd put me in danger and could've killed me and that you were completely thoughtless, reckless, and irresponsible in your decisions. They grounded you that day, too. And the next day, they were killed in a head-on collision. You held my hand then, too. And even though I cried, begged, and pleaded for you not to, you got back up on that bike. And because you got back on, I got back on, too.

I was thinking about when you put the corsage on my wrist on Prom Night, when you threatened to kill my date (Paul Olson, remember?) if he pulled anything funny, when you offered to kill him anyways when I came home crying because he'd ditched me for Kelly Pierceson. And I was thinking about how you joined the Air Force so "we" (meaning I) "could go to college and wouldn't have to rely on Aunt Sheila and Uncle Rick forever." And I was thinking about all the offensive and defensive maneuvers you showed me when you got home that first time, even though you were tired and bruised and just wanted to sleep all week. They weren't all that different from the swings you threw at Todd Nelson and Max Lovett that day on the playground. And when I fell—when I didn't block right or swung so hard that I lost my balance—you grabbed my hand and pulled me up.

And I was thinking about Raccoon City. And Rockfort Island. And Harvardville. And how I would've died if it weren't for you. And how I never, ever even once said "Thank you." And how now it's too late to tell you.

I don't know if I believe in any of the stuff they taught us in Sunday School, Chris. I don't know if I ever did believe in it. The only thing I do know is that I'm going to leave this letter on your gravestone and hope that the wind blows it to wherever you are.

You can't hold my hand anymore, big brother, but I'm still holding yours.

Love,  
Claire

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_Right. And now I'm off to write some more (I hope). Fare thee well for now, citizens! (woosh noises)_


End file.
